Flame Test
by appletizer
Summary: The day to day life of Gamma Jack. Oh, the joy of burning things up. Football. Cooking. Fun.
1. What Might As Well Be The Prolouge

Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Disney or Pixar- _The Incredibles_ and all of its characters, locations, etc. are trademarks of them. All rights reserved. In short, I'm not getting money for writing this.

Author's note: This story just came to me on a whim; I'm not sure whether I'll be adding new parts to this or not. Whatever- here it is, my first _Incredibles_ fic. Hope you enjoy (because neglected heroes like Gamma Jack just need more attention).

"Flame Test"

It first happened to me when I was as young as the little boy that lives a few houses down from you- you know; the one that spends his mornings indulging in action cartoons and his days wheeling around on his shiny new tricycle. It was that age where one is still small enough for old dumpy friends of your mother to coo over just how adorable you were and to pinch your cheeks mercilessly until you feel like screaming. It is also the age where one is not quite so smart as he would like to be. I had gone to brush my teeth in the bathroom when the door jammed, resulting in the mutual childhood claustrophobia to come kicking to life. Shrieking in panic, squeezing my eyes shut, I very near missed the moment when the bathroom door came smoldering down before me.

Keep in mind my age at this point in my life and you will understand why by the time my mother discovered the charred, solitary doorframe, the whole event had been dismissed from my mind.

Years passed. I grew. My parents became aware of my unnatural abilities; I could hear them murmuring urgently in low voices when I was in bed, could see the wariness on their expressions whenever they stooped to hold me. They did not know what they should do for me. Of course in reality I needed virtually nothing, but they were parents, you see. Worry and the constant feeling of inadequacy are commonplace when caring for a loved one. I am very aware of that feeling now. But at that time- no bother. My life consisted of nothing but schoolwork and the playful scorching of Barbies, much to my baby sister's distaste.

Keeping my- condition, they called it- a secret from the outside world was no simple task. In my youth, I had been constantly supervised and monitored most every place I went to make sure that nothing would come blazing down around me. Now, my parents were not the type to senselessly lock a child up in the house, but they weren't stupid either. My father, a large, stern, broad-rimmed spectacle wearing figure of a man who hailed from southern France, dutifully explored any and all relations to my "deformity". I am still not completely sure how it was done, but one day father brought home the man who is today one of the most important in my career; Richard Dicker; NSA agent.

What I remember most about that occasion is Mr. Dicker's nose. It was, and still is, unusually large, placed precisely onto the centre of his face as though with meticulous care. I wondered what it would be like to pull on it. I still do today.

"So you're John Russell, aren't you?" he said, not seeming to mind the fact that I was smeared with a generous helping of dust, my auburn hair unkempt, having just come inside from a romp with old buddies in the football field. I was grateful to him and therefore decided against pointing out that I preferred the name 'Jack'. "Yessir."

"My name is Mr. Dicker," he told me calmly, as is his way. Simultaneously, his hand drew from his pocket a crumpled pack of Kleenex tissues. Shaking one free, he held it in before my eyes. "Alright then, John. When I throw this tissue in the air, I want you to do to it something that no one else you know can do." I found that command to be fairly simple enough, far simpler that long division or the spelling of 'precariously', or whatever else they made us do in my fifth grade class. I was aware of the familiar burning behind my eyes as I sent the tissue flaming through the air.

I later learned that the 'Kleenex tissue test' was not a rare commodity in Mr. Dicker's line of work. Frozone told me that the hunk of frozen tissue he had created had immediately bounced off of Richard's foot; Blazestone's had disintegrated too quickly for Mr. Dicker to truly catch; and Mr. Incredible had simply plucked the Kleenex from the air and, in one hand, had crumpled it into nothingness.

Back to me. Mr. Dicker nodded, stamped out the smoldering patch on the wine-colored carpet. "Thank you John. That will be all."

I left, baffled, but soon forgot about the entire ordeal.

However, it was just as well that I was introduced to Richard Dicker, for when I was nearing twelve years of age, my father died of an unexpected heart attack. My mother, a slim, cultured woman, pretty but nervous, was devastated beyond all hope. She followed not long after. The NSA, National Superhero Agency, immediately took custody of what remained of my family.

What else can be said? The following years passed with sufficient normalcy. Grief was eventually suppressed and some semblance of happiness returned to the household. A worker would come from the Agency at roughly 5:30 pm every day and stay with us until we were asleep, always bringing with them dinner, plus lunch for the following day. Eventually I taught myself how to cook and the latter was no longer needed. In school, I joined the football team to keep my mind off of things. Although I was visibly slighter that one would expect a football player to be, I had speed which was found beneficial. It would serve me later on during hero work, but we aren't quite at that point in my life just yet. I remember after one unfair loss, I had been as surprised as anyone when the opposing team's goalpost burst into flame. I had worked on my self-control since that occasion. Unbeknownst to me, I had unconsciously started a little something called training.

All of the preceding is and was background. Does it have anything to do with what I am today? Perhaps. Nothing in life is for certain, as I have always been told. I am well into nineteen years old now, have graduated with flying colors, and am planning on attending a university sometime soon when I am sure that my younger sister can fend for herself. I began my hero career slowly, subtly at first. Even I wasn't sure where I was going with the whole thing. But it made me happy and the people seemed appreciative as well. Initially I heard myself being fondly discussed in the streets as "Handsome Jack" after I had accidentally let my first name slip. I've absolutely no clue where and why the name arose. Apogee said it was due to the ladies "liking what they saw". I'm not completely sure if she was joking or not. I honestly see nothing exceptional about my appearance- except my teeth? I guess I do have nice teeth. Whatever; I won't be untruthful and say that I don't secretly bask in the attention. When it all boils down to it, I guess I'm just a little man-whore.

My sister, Janie Russell, is blissfully unaware of the life I lead. She was very young when our parents died and was never fully aware of my powers. As a child, when her Barbies were burnt, she had assumed that I had used the stove. Even when the NSA was caring for us, her understanding was that the agents had been old friends of our father. Making an outfit for myself was torture, as it were. I was constantly stashing the work in progress away in a panic whenever I heard her footsteps outside my door, knowing that she could burst unabashedly into my room, as she was in the habit of doing. As a result, the completed costume came out looking like a dying animal. I won't lie and say that it had nothing to do with my sewing either. Friends tell me that they would risk arm and leg for a bite of my cooking, but I can't sew for my life.

Mr. Dicker received word of my predicament and informed me of a professional costume designer by the name of Edna Mode. I was elated to find that almost every other super got their outfit custom-made by her. Relieved to find that she did not charge a penny for her work. A tad bit freaked out by her strange, to say the least, manner (upon meeting me, the little lady asked which arm I would like surgically removed and replaced with a custom-made laser gun), but hang all of that. Edna Mode proved to be a godsend.

The resulting costume was almost perfect, almost everything I could have every asked for. The only problem I found with it is somewhat uncomfortable to discuss. You'll probably laugh at me, but here it is- my crotch region. Keep in mind that the whole thing is fairly tight on my body- thank the heavens it is made of a thick, sturdy material. Still, the lower area of my body did appear rather unseemly. It was here that I recalled old pictures of certain superheroes wearing what seemed to be underwear for what I determined to be an answer to my very problem. Of course, I'd die before asking Edna to fashion a pair of special "hero undies", so I settled for simply purchasing a pair of black briefs from the local department store. Thankfully, the whole get-up appears very normal, and thus far I have found little to no evidence that anyone particularly notices or cares about the overall strangeness.

Author's notes: Okay, there it is. Wheee. Sorry if anyone disagrees with any of this, but this is my interpretation of Gamma Jack- the tone is meant to be confident, but loosely detached. I had fun writing this. Feel free to drop a comment- I absolutely love getting feedback from readers. Oh yeah, and the part about nice teeth… in case you were wondering, it is indeed a nod toward _The Princess Bride_. I love that book, ha-ha.


	2. Box of Chocolates

Author's Notes: Oh look! I decided to add a second chapter. Glee.

Replies:

Spindle Berry- Ack! My innocence! ) Many thanks for the nice meaty review- much love to you! Also, apologies for the French thing. I honestly had no clue that other stories see him as so…and I mostly judged his ethnicity by his facial features. Those cheekbones just scream France!! By the way, where are these other stories you speak of? I'd sure like to read them too!

Ms. Kinnikufan- I'm so glad people enjoy stories about the NSA supers. It gives me incentive to keep going. On that note, I took a peek at the stories you had written. Talk about whoa! _Flame Test_ doesn't even hold a candle to your multiple, awesome NSA super stories! I love yooouuuuu!!

Disclaimer: Pixar and Disney own _The Incredibles_ and all of the characters in it. I also don't own Arrowhead bottled water. Just for the record.

Flame Test: Chapter 2

My issue is usually between being on time for work at the local movie theatre and proving myself as the diligent, hardworking employee that my boss is looking for, or blowing all of that off completely and opting instead to rescue the pretty young lady hollering from the eight story of the burning apartment complex. My usual answer is not too difficult to guess when you put into consideration the amount of burning glares I get from my dear boss. Ah well, what can you do? Rescuing hapless victims isn't _too_ much of a hassle; burning flesh is a stench I'd rather not have the city wafting in anyway.

It was a cool, windless night and I had no particular worries like the aforementioned on my mind. I was decked out in my hero wear, that old clichéd saying "All dressed up and no where to go" ringing in my ears. I had chosen for myself a relatively tall building to scout the city from. It was an abandoned piece of sod, making my undetected journey to the rooftop terrace no laborious task. The ledges of old balconies along the side of the building provided a quick way to get down in a hurry. From up here I could usually spot trouble before it happened, but this particular night was fairly dead, which I found disheartening. Now don't take me the wrong way; I don't exactly take much joy in witnessing crime or for that matter, beating it down either. But I'm sure that you understand the concept of boredom.

Think of that time when you decided to be stupid and stared at a pot of water for minutes on end, waiting for it to boil. Waiting, watching for evildoers to strike isn't much different. You are constantly struck with the notion that the waiting is pointless, _nothing is going to happen!_, but the more stubborn part of you is insisting _it's been calm way too long; it's definitely time for someone to make a move_. I've been caught up in this conflict far too many times to care for; I've lost count of the number of times I fell asleep against the ledge, waking up with a start to gape at the busy intersection fifty stories below. Granted, being active in the super line of duty calls for plenty of caffeine.

I wasn't alone tonight though- Stratogale had spotted me nodding off while she was flying around (Flying! How awesome does that sound? Oh, the envy!) and had decided to keep me company.

There was a raggedy paper bag hooked beneath her belt. She reached into it and pulled out a pear. "Want a bite?"

I shook my head. "I'm fine, thanks." Pears. Yuck.

She shrugged. "Suit yourself." Stratogale chewed vigorously and leaned to peer over the ledge. "So whatcha waiting for, trouble?"

"No, I'm waiting for the man with the dancing monkey," I answered, sarcastically if you hadn't already figured that out. "He's usually over at that corner by now."

"Huh. Good one, Jack." She gnawed at the core of the pear for a moment before chucking it down over the side of the building. I followed its descent, up to where it crashed rather heavily at the feet of an early rising man no doubt heading off to work. Startled, he jumped back from the madly skittering fruit and glanced up. Stratogale drew back from the ledge and covered up her laughter with both hands.

"Hey," I protested. "Someone might come up here."

The way she glanced at me was strangely familiar. I realized that it was the way I had glanced at the male teacher I had found nuzzling my gym shorts. "You think someone's gonna bother to check out this old dump? What_ever_."

I fumed for a moment. "You're littering besides."

"Like crap I am! Maybe the rats will feed it to their babies."

"So now you're concerned for the welfare of rats?"

"You know it." Stratogale stood up and stretched her arms over her head. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail to keep it out of her face during flight. She was shorter than me, and _very_ skinny. She didn't look to be more that sixteen years old.

I turned away. "Don't you have homework to do or something?"

"Trigonometry. Hey Gamma, wanna do some Trigonometry for me?"

I frowned at her and she laughed. "Only joking. Boy, you're a load of fun. Have a chocolate." So saying, Stratogale pulled a red box from her bag. It was heart-shaped, with a To/ From label splashed across the cover. I realized that she must have received it from an admirer the past Valentine's Day, three days prior. She had thoughtfully smeared out her civilian name as well as the name of the affiliated boy. Stratogale waved the box at me. "Go on, take one."

"I really shouldn't."

"Come on! Don't make me get fat eating them all by myself."

Fat was precisely something the stick-figured girl definitely needed more of. I hated to think of what would happen if she got stuck in an elevator- she probably wouldn't last more than four hours. However, I accepted a small square before she could do something drastic, perhaps like throw the whole bow at my head. "Thanks." I popped it into my mouth was a tad bit surprised when the upper layer of chocolate flaked away, leaving a mess of caramel sitting on my tongue. I swallowed it hastily.

Stratogale looked over at me from where she was chewing a square of her own. "What, don't like caramel?" I shook my head and she sighed, biting into another piece. "Talk about picky."

"For real," I agreed, sipping water from the bottle I had brought along. Arrowhead. The only water I'll drink. The filtered crap tastes like…filtered crap.

She grinned at me. "It happens. Me, I won't eat tomatoes. You can threaten to cut the toes off of my left foot, and I still won't touch 'em. Pleasant picture, huh?"

"Not particularly." I glanced up at the sky. There was a faint smattering of pallid light to the east. "Guess we can leave the city to the day-patrollers now." I looked at Stratogale now. "I'm out of school; I can sleep all day until work. But how-"

"Don't worry about me. I'm wired up on espresso. I bet I'll be too much for my teachers to handle!" She smiled brightly and stuffed her remaining chocolates into the paper bag at her side. "Boy, I should really ask Edna for a side pouch one of these days."

"What, to carry food around in?" She nodded. "Don't you eat enough at dinner?"

"This _is_ my dinner. Sometimes my parents bring take-out, but I usually settle for whatever I find around the house. Stratogale pointed down to the pear core that was still lying on the sidewalk- rats and their babies be damned. "You can't say that my meals aren't nutritious."

I blew a lock of hair from my eyes. A few strands had gotten stuck under my mask and I shook them loose. "Stop by again. I'll make you something if you'd like."

Stratogale blinked at me. "You can cook?" She beamed at my response of "Heck yes I can." "Thanks Gamma Jack! That's real nice of you." She snuck a look at her watch. "But for now, I'd better get going. Thanks for the date!" I scoffed as she laughed and jumped from the ledge, gliding off to who-knows-where.

I watched her go. You probably think that I found her pretty, and you'd be half-right. Stratogale was nice-looking, but that was the extent of it for me. Call me crazy, but only reason I don't immediately strike up relationships with all the pretty ladies I rescue is because I still harbor that childhood belief in a one true love. Like I said- call me crazy. I'll take my chances with it though.

My musing was interrupted by sudden music from below. I inclined my gaze and found a man turning a crank box, the monkey at his side dancing fit to blur off into space.


End file.
